


Lose All The Battles by Artemis2050

by Artemis2050



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: F/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis2050/pseuds/Artemis2050
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years after they meet, post X1.  A little walk through my home town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose All The Battles by Artemis2050

  
[Lose All The Battles](viewstory.php?sid=20) by [Artemis2050](viewuser.php?uid=226)  


  
Summary: Six years after they meet, post X1. A little walk through my home town.  
Categories: [AU](browse.php?type=categories&id=5) Characters:  None  
Genres:  Shipper  
Tags:  None  
Warnings:  None  
Challenges:  
Series: None  
Chapters:  1 Completed: Yes   
Word count: 7128 Read: 1805  
Published: 07/13/2005 Updated: 07/13/2005 

Lose All The Battles by Artemis2050

Author's Notes:

Marie's POV, six years after they meet, post X1. A little walk through my home town.

  
**Lose All The Battles**  
By Artemis

All I can think is, I should have called first.

It didn’t occur to me until it was too late. Logan has had that apartment in Cobble Hill for years, and I’ve even had the keys ever since I started classes at NYU, and during busy times I’d sometimes stayed over two or three times a week. When it came right down to it, that was probably why I’d never wanted to live in the dorms, even after I got control of my mutation junior year. That was a great weekend.

Logan was the first person I’d wanted to tell, even before I told my boyfriend. I just ran out of the Mansion in a glow of success, got Jubilee to drive me to the train station and went straight to Brooklyn. (And again in retrospect—isn’t hindsight always 20/20?—that was definitely the beginning of the end for me and Bobby.) Come to think of it, that was probably the only other time I’d ever showed up at Logan’s unannounced. He’d been away until earlier that week, though, so it couldn’t have been entirely unexpected that I’d drop by.

Logan met me at the door that night, like he almost always did—it’s not like anyone could sneak up on him. He knew something was up right away. It was winter, very cold, and he held the door open for me to come inside. Then he cocked his head to one side. “What?”

I was wearing gloves, and for once it had nothing to do with protecting other people from my skin—it was just freakin’ cold out. I pulled off my multicolored knit Union-Square-Christmas-Fair mittens and held out my hands.

“My hands are cold.” And I waited.

It only took a minute for him to get it. Then his eyes changed, looked at me questioningly, and he reached out and wrapped both his hands around mine.

They were so warm. That’s the main thing I remember. They felt so warm and strong, his fingers tightening even more as he realized that nothing was happening—that nothing was going to happen. I was grinning like an idiot, I’m sure, and all the time his eyes were searching my face. I thought he was waiting for the punch line.

“I wanted to show you first,” I blurted out, and his expression changed just a little, but not like I’d expected. He looked—suspicious? Watchful might be a better word.

I was annoyed. I’d expected at least one of his all-too-rare smiles, maybe even outright goddamn enthusiasm, was that too much to ask? I shoved all that down, because it was still new, back then, and I was still having to balance the concentration on a fine point in my mind to keep it steady. If I got mad, I might slip.

It’s so much easier now, easier to have it off than on, after all this time, that sometimes I can’t believe it wasn’t easier than it was to learn. I talked to John once about our differing issues of control—mine being hard to acquire in the first place, where he only had trouble once he started letting his mutation loose. Both of us agreed that learning to control strong emotion was key, though.

I fold my hands around the paper cup of coffee I’m holding and wish like hell I was wearing gloves now, because this stupid coffee is too damn hot and the shop was out of those little paper cuffs they give you to protect your hands.

A girl comes down the street across from me, swiping a hand over her face. I can tell just by the way she walks that she’s furious, probably fighting tears. She holds her shoulders squarely, daring the world to take her on, and her long blonde ponytail switches between her shoulders as she walks, beautiful blonde hair that reaches almost to her waist. She could use that hair like a weapon, I’m sure, making a man watch as she put it up or took it down, letting the golden tresses spill over her shoulders, daring him to look away as she shakes it out—

_Damn._ That was a mental echo I haven’t caught in a long time now, that sudden burst of desire for something or someone I don’t really want, not _me_. I hate the way my hands around the coffee cup twitch with a sudden visceral urge to be holding something else, something warm and giving and soft-hardening-to-tight-peaks under my fingers—

I almost drop the coffee, almost fling the cup away from me and into the street as I thrust away that memory/desire/knowledge. The blonde stops at the corner, waiting for the light, and then it changes and she walks across the street, her heels clicking briskly against the pavement.

High heels. Lilac. Strappy. In the little foyer made out of the old side entrance of the big old brownstone. It’s a separate entrance going only to Logan’s apartment, one of the reasons he no doubt picked that place. It’s around the side of the building, up a short flight of stairs, where once-upon-a-time in a long ago and very different Brooklyn, the deliveries were made and the servants came and went so as not to bother the real inhabitants of the house. The brownstones have all long since been turned into apartments, and the people who live in them now, for all their yuppie money and Wall Street jobs, are the very same people who would have been the servants themselves back then. (The Vanderbilts and such are all on the Upper East Side, I think.) The entrance is still there, though, a peculiar old rounded cupola of a room with two doors leading off it that are actually curved—an unusual bit of architecture that gives the entrance an Alice-in-Wonderland feel I’ve always loved. (And probably raised the asking price of the place a good ten grand.)

The shoes-off place. There’s a word for it in Japanese, _genkan_. Logan’s picked up bits and pieces of lots of cultures along the way, and Japan influenced him a lot—more than I probably realize, since his bare-bones approach to furnishing has likely got more to do with that than with sheer indifference to owning stuff. I used to hate how empty his place looked, but now I kind of like it. There’s bachelor-pad-apathetic bare, and then there’s Logan-bare—spare, clean, nothing that isn’t necessary but everything that he needs. Form _and_ function.

He wouldn’t even have had to ask her to take off those lilac-colored shoes, I’m sure—she’d have slipped out of them, flirtatiously probably, just having watched him take off his own boots and set them neatly by the side of the door. They’d been sitting there, one upright and the other fallen over onto the toe of the black cowboy boots, the oldest shoes he owns, the ones he wears almost every single day.

I have the keys, and it hadn’t even occurred to me not to use them until I was inside the door, standing in that rabbit-hole entryway staring at those shoes. Then I tried to get out as fast as I could, a foolishly strong sense of panic rising in my throat as I tried to click back the sticky bolt to the outer door I’d let fall closed behind me. I knew it was idiotic to feel like that; this wasn’t Magneto again, it was just Logan with some girl, but I hated feeling that caught out.

I should have known it was too late, anyway. I wasn’t even halfway down the stairs before the door was opening behind me and he was standing there at the top of the steps.

“Marie.” And the tone in his voice, half-amused, half-resigned, just made me pure blind furious. Damned if I was going to let him know it, though. I plastered a smile on my face and turned, determined to face this out with good grace if it killed me, and then I’d get back on the train and go home to Westchester and never, ever, ever come here without being sure he expected me, ever again.

“Sorry. I didn’t know you had company.” I wrinkled my nose at him. “Bad timing.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He glanced over his shoulder, and my stomach turned. For half a second I thought he was going to ask me in anyway, and I clenched my teeth. _No way. No fucking way in hell am I going in there and meet her._ Then his eyes came back to me, dark and unreadable. “Give me a few minutes.”

“That all it takes?” I saw shock sweep over his features and god, that felt good. I forced a giggle. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” I waved a hand. “I’ll catch you later. I was just on my way back to Westchester, anyway, thought you might want to get dinner or something. I should have called first.” I thought I’d managed that reasonably well.

He shook his head. “Don’t—give me fifteen minutes.” I saw a brief flash of movement behind him and a jolt went through me. She’d heard that, whoever she was. “Get a cup of coffee at Melissa’s or something. I’ll come get you.”

“No! It’s no big deal, Logan—don’t be silly.” Christ, could this get any worse? Any _more_ embarrassing? “I’ll call you later this week and we’ll do something.”

“Marie…” He hesitated, and I had no idea what he was thinking over. Then his eyes locked on mine, and I knew that determined look all too well, the one that says _Do what I say or I’ll make you do it anyway._ “Fifteen minutes.” Then he turned and went back inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

I stood there for a good minute and a half of my allotted fifteen before I could get my hand to release the railing of the stairs, and I hadn’t even been aware that I’d been gripping it that hard until I tried to uncurl my fingers and saw the ridges the cast-iron scrollwork had left on my skin. Then I’d gone around the corner and across the street to Sweet Melissa’s, the little patisserie that had opened a couple of years ago, went in and ordered my coffee.

Which is finally cool enough to sip. I take a gulp of it and move away from the storefront a little so a woman maneuvering a baby carriage can enter. I hold the door open for her and when I let it go and turn around again, Logan is crossing the street, wearing his boots again and looking—worried. Or something.

He comes up to me and jerks his head back towards the apartment. “Come on.”

I don’t move. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say, and I’m angry all over again.

“It didn’t matter,” he answers, and I catch a hint of anger in his tone as well. “It wasn’t—just come on.” He reached toward my hand and I pull back.

“Careful. Hot coffee.” I make my voice carefully neutral, masking that seething rage. I can at least walk on my own without being shepherded around like the five-year-old he so obviously thinks I am. The one I’m acting like, actually. I start back across the street. Might as well, I suppose. I’ve already ruined his evening, obviously.

He doesn’t say anything else until we’re inside. He silently reaches for my coffee cup and holds it while I lean over to pull off my own shoes, not fuck-me heels but sensible brown loafers, thank you very much, and somehow that isn’t helping my mood any. He toes off his boots again and holds open the right-hand door for me.

Logan’s apartment is oddly laid out. Because of the setup of the original brownstone, he’s got these two huge rooms interconnected by that foyer but nothing else, so the front room that he uses as his bedroom isn’t directly accessible from the back one, off of which there’s a tiny kitchen, a bathroom, a laundry area and a little annex in the very back that he uses for meditation. The ceilings are gloriously high, with “original fixtures”, as the realtor gleefully pointed out. I stare up at the ornate plaster curlicues in the center of the ceiling as Logan moves past me into the middle of the room and turns to face me, crossing his arms. I almost wince, waiting for the axe to fall.

“I’m sorry.” Well, that isn’t what I expected, not at all. My eyes jerk back down to his face. Even after six years and a bit, I still have trouble reading his expressions. He’s too good at hiding what he really thinks. Which is not too surprising, I suppose, considering that his life has depended on that ability from time to time. I try, anyway. He looks—tired? “Didn’t mean for that to happen.”

I shrug. “Bound to happen eventually. You didn’t have to get rid of her.” I make myself laugh, just a little. “I’m sure she was good and pissed.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. His eyes don’t move from my face. “Don’t worry about it.” Yeah, I’m sure he can talk her around just fine, when he has a moment’s leisure. Then he moves, coming to take the coffee from me again, slipping my jacket from my shoulders, making it clear that he expects me to stay. He hands me back my cup and goes to hang up my coat, and I go across to the leather sofa and sink down onto it, letting go a little.

He comes back and sits down in the chair at my left. I sip my coffee; he’s going to give me a little space here, obviously. Finally I look up at him and twist my mouth into a smile of sorts. “Well. That was awkward.”

He shrugs. “Like I said—didn’t matter.”

“Sure it did. I’m sorry,” I tell him, and I still can’t make anything out of that weary expression. “I shouldn’t just assume you’re always free to—“

“Cut it out.” Something sparks there, just for a second, almost scary in its intensity. “She’s just some girl I met in a bar.”

I smile for real at that. “So’m I, come to that. What’s the difference?”

The flash of whatever it is flares and then dies as he grins too. “Good point. You want a real mug for that?” I nod and he gets up to go get me one. I stare down at my hands and wow, sudden déjà vu, sitting here four years ago staring down at my hands in black satin gloves. As Logan lectures me, in his way.

“You gotta cut this shit out, kid.” Running off to New York to go drinking with St. John and Bobby and Jubilee, he meant. “You’re gonna get yourself in serious trouble and you might not be so lucky next time.”

The memories from the college jerk who’d tried to pin me up against the wall in the basement of the club were still spinning around in my head, the grossly-mean frat-boy fantasies of what he was going to get from me making ugly pictures in my mind, and I was trying not to bawl. “So what? I don’t get to do anything normal kids do. Bobby and John would’ve—“

“Bobby and John were wasted, upstairs, and they didn’t have the faintest fuckin’ idea where you were.” He knelt down in front of me then, reaching for my hands, and I jerked back. “Marie—“

“At least he wanted to touch me,” I snapped, and then I wanted to fall down a hole in the floor. I already felt pathetic, dressed in something completely slutty from Jubes’s wardrobe and with too-heavy makeup smeared all over my face. Then I had to have a little pissant temper tantrum on top of my earlier indiscretion, and go and say something guaranteed to set off every withdrawal instinct he had? Things with Logan had been strained lately anyway, after he’d made it clear that one of the reasons he’d moved out of the Mansion was that he was tired of having me follow him around like a lost puppy. ‘Made him uncomfortable’, was the line he’d actually used. Him. Logan. The former mercenary, former assassin, former cage-fighter. Had to draw a line in the sand to warn me off. _Oh, just kill me now._

He’d sat back on his heels then, shaking his head at me. “Kid…” Oh, I hated when he called me that. And right then it was just rubbing salt in wounds. “Plenty of guys’ll want to touch you. That ain’t the right way to go after it.” Then he’d sent me to shower and ‘wash that crap off my face,’ as he put it. I’d spent the night on the couch, in a much-too-big set of his sweats, and the next day I’d hidden in the bathroom while he and Jubilee had the mother of all arguments about me in the next room. He’d won, and a much-subdued Jubes drove me back to the Mansion, after apologizing for ditching the three of us earlier in the evening to go off with her boyfriend and leaving me to my own obviously-immature devices. I had a roaring headache, and I slept most of the day after we got back. When I woke up, Jubes had shoved a piece of paper under my door, something she’d printed off the internet about a fight in a club in lower Manhattan. An ‘unidentified white male’ had been taken to St. Vincent’s with a broken jaw. Across the bottom of the printout Jubes had scrawled _Lucky bastard_. Meaning he just got punched, but Logan was mad at her. Of the two, I also recommend the former. At least it’s over faster.

“Here.” Logan is holding a mug out to me, bringing me back to the here and now. I take it and dump my three-dollar-Sweet-Melissa’s-gourmet-blend into it as he sits back down; a long-neck bottle dangles from his fingers now. It looks better than my now-cold coffee.

“Got any more of that?” He gives me the raised eyebrow, but hoists himself back up and goes to get me one. After the Nightclub Incident, he’d extracted a promise: no more drinking till I was legal, unless I was with him. I’d kept the promise, more than kept it, actually, though he didn’t know that. I’d been legal well over a year and this was the only place I ever drank, with the exception of the odd New Year’s glass of Champagne at the Mansion party. Even that was a technicality; he’d been at that party, at least until an emergency call came in, so quietly that no one realized anything was going on, until I looked around at midnight and couldn’t find him. Or Jean, or Scott, or Ororo.

Or Jubilee. I was _seriously_ pissed at her for skipping out without telling me, and I stayed awake all that night until they got back at nearly six AM. I was furious, right up until I saw her walking off the _Blackbird_ , her eyes shadowed and haunted-looking, leaning on Logan’s arm. Then I was just terrified.

It turned out she was okay, mostly; she’d gotten knocked down a flight of stairs and twisted her ankle, that was all. She was shaken up, and she was exhausted from being up all night and tense about feeling like she’d fucked up on her first official mission. I hugged her and stayed with her until Jean’s assistant showed up with a wheelchair to take her down to the infirmary, even tried to stay with her until Logan pulled me away.

“Hey. You need some sleep too, kid.” He pulled me into his arms and hugged me, and that was when I realized I was on the verge of tears. “It’s okay. She’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want her going out on missions. She’s too young. She’s not like you.”

I could _feel_ him laughing. “Not sure I disagree with you, but…” He held me away from him and gave me a serious look. “She’s out of college and this is what she wants to do. She’s a smart girl. Tough. She’ll be okay.”

“What _happened_? She looked—“ She’d looked shell-shocked.

“There was a fight. Couple people got shot.” He answered my as question simply and straightforwardly as he always did. “Real life ain’t always nice.”

“I know, but…” I took a shaky breath. “Why did it have to be _tonight_?” It was easier to be upset about the party being ruined than about what it really was, which I didn’t really understand until later. Jubes wasn’t like me any more—she was officially on the team now, an X-Man, and she didn’t get to pretend real life wasn’t happening outside these walls any more.

“Hey. What’s the big deal about tonight? Just a dumb party.” He was teasing, and then he tipped my face up and wiped away a couple of tears with one finger. “C’mon. I bet you didn’t even notice we were gone.”

“I did. I was looking. For you. At midnight.” My words were coming out between gulps as I fought back more tears.

“Yeah?” He gave me a crooked grin. “How come? You lose the Ice Cube in the crowd?”

“Bobby and I broke up. Last week.” That was _not_ how I planned on telling Logan that, but surprisingly it didn’t make me dissolve like I’d been afraid it would. I hadn’t told anyone because I didn’t want to wreck anyone’s holiday week having to be extra-nice to poor little Rogue, but suddenly next to what Jubes had just been through, my romance problems looked pretty small.

“I’m sorry.” He did sound sorry, but not overly concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” And I was. “How about you?”

“Ready to grab some sleep.” He put an arm around my waist and started to lead me towards the elevators.

I pouted, but mostly just to mess with him. “I didn’t even get a kiss at midnight. And this is the first year I actually _can_.”

He sighed dramatically, jerked me to a halt and spun me up against the wall. Then he leaned over and brought his lips down over mine. His mouth was an incredible contrast to the roughness of the stubble of the overnight growth of beard on his face. Touch was still pretty new to me then and my heart sped up. A lot.

“It’s not midnight,” I managed, once he’d finished.

“Probably still midnight somewhere.” He stayed right where he was for another second or two before straightening up. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.”

That was two, almost three years ago. It’s September, so you do the math. I take the bottle Logan’s offering me and take a long drink. He’s still standing there. “What?”

“Anything else? Newspaper, blanket, chocolate chip cookie? Or can I sit down now?” Ah. Back to that.

“No, I think I’m good.” I watch him settle himself back in his chair and stretch his legs out in front of him.

“So what’d you have in mind?” I must look awfully blank, because the eyebrow goes into action again. “Pizza? Chinese? Indonesian?”

“There is no such thing as Indonesian takeout.”

“This’s New York. You could get takeout from Pago Pago if you knew where to look.”

Smartass. He always lets me pick, says he doesn’t care what he eats, except sushi. He’ll eat it, but he won’t order it in. Frankly, that makes a lot of sense to me. “Maybe Indian? I feel like something spicy.”

“Okay. You know where the menus are.”

“Later. I think I need to recover from the drama.” I’m trying for another bantering exchange, but he doesn’t take me up on it this time. Instead, he just nods once and picks up the remote from the floor next to his chair. He turns on the set.

The only reason Logan has a use for a remote is because they sometimes show hockey on more than one channel. He finds a Rangers game and we watch as the Flames, up one in the second period, kill a power play.

“Jesus christ—get someone in front of the goal,” Logan mutters, and I hide a grin. One of the more outraged looks I’ve ever gotten from him was when I asked if he’d ever actually _been_ on ice skates. My point was going to be, maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on those guys trying to guide a puck around a slippery surface while going backwards at full speed on little knives strapped to their feet, but I was laughing way too hard at the look on his face to finish my thought.

I finish my beer. “Want another?” All I get is a short grunt and an empty bottle held out as I stand up and go towards the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and look in.

Beer, check. Leftover takeout, check. Three different kinds of barbecue sauce, check. And a carton of milk, which I’m willing to bet is the same one he got the last time I spent the weekend two—no, three weeks ago. Which means—I open the carton and don’t even have to sniff; it’s _solid_. I turn on the water in the sink and rinse the stuff down the drain in thick white chunks.

I pop the caps off the beers with the opener that’s still lying on the counter and hand him one as I go back to my seat. “Should remember to clean out the fridge once in a while, sugar. Someday the EPA is going to fine you.” Oops, not a commercial, so no response. I sigh and tuck my feet up under me on the couch. Logan keeps watching the game and I find myself watching him. I’m sure it’s just all this weirdness with his little friend, but he seems to have gotten very remote, somehow—like I don’t even know him.

Everyone seems to assume that Logan and I have some kind of strange mystical connection. We don’t. I mean, I’m sure I know him better than anybody else, but that’s not saying much, and it sure as hell doesn’t have anything to do with my mutation. If you want to absorb someone’s thoughts—important mutant advice coming up here—don’t do it while you’re _in extremis_. All I remember, consciously, is just a jumble of _Oh-christ-don’t–die-on-me_. The other stuff, like craving illicit substances or strange women in the street, is so subconscious that it always shocks me when I realize it’s not me, it’s him.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to get to it consciously, believe me. Once, about a year ago, we were having an argument about something, I don’t even remember what. Logan is no fun to argue with. He makes up his mind, and that’s it. He won’t even talk about it, whatever it is—it’s just case closed. And I really, seriously didn’t understand what he was so upset about. I got so frustrated I said, “If you won’t tell me what you’re thinking, I can always turn the skin on and find out.”

Before it was even all the way out of my mouth I knew it was a mistake. He just froze, and for a second I thought _That’s it, game over, he’s gonna be packed and outta here by morning._ Then he kind of twitched one shoulder and took a breath.

“You do that, you better be bleeding. A lot.” I was even more shocked. I don’t know which was more out of character, me threatening Logan, or him almost making a joke out of having had to save my life that way. I just stared at him in total disbelief for about a week and then we both started laughing hysterically. Well, I did, anyway. He did laugh, though, I remember. And he did talk, some, and I didn’t mind so much losing the argument. As usual.

But most of the time, I have no clue what’s going on in his mind, just like anybody else. At the moment, specifically, I have no idea why he interrupted his evening of pleasure with Miss Lilac Heels in order to sit there glowering at Mark Messier, who seems to have gotten himself a high-sticking penalty. Logan doesn’t even _like_ the Rangers, so there you have it again. Why does this bother him? I’d like to know. Surely I can find this out, at least.

“What do you care who gets penalized? These aren’t even your teams.” If anything, I’d think he’d prefer to see the Flames win. Fellow Canucks, and all that.

“Principle of the thing. They play like shit.” I fight back a smile. That response is pure Logan if ever I heard it. “You hungry yet?”

“Sure.” I get up to go to the drawer in the kitchen where he keeps a truly impressive array of takeout menus. Although—here’s one of the secrets I _do_ know about him—Logan can cook. Well, as a matter of fact. I imagine it’s the ‘principle of the thing.’ If you’re going to do something…

I sort through the menus, and damned if there isn’t Indonesian takeout in Park Slope. Well, well. Small-town girl till the end, always being surprised by the little things. I find the menu I’m looking for and take it back out to the other room. He’s still engrossed in the game—power play again, you see—so I flip it open and mentally select my meal while I wait.

He’s so intense about whatever he’s doing. I remember that night again, when I showed up to tell him about my control breakthrough. He didn’t get excited, not even when I got all annoyed and tried to shake him off, telling him that I couldn’t be sure I could hold onto the switch if I was mad.

“You can. I know you can,” he said, and he didn’t let go of my hands. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

“Yeah? Well I didn’t. It matters, you know. No one even knows what my skin feels like.”

“I do.” And he’d leaned forward a little and pressed his lips against my forehead, and then—that’s when I knew how happy he was for me, because I could feel all that intensity just burning into my skin, and not because I was sucking the life out of him this time. And I was thrilled, because I’d always wished I had even the faintest memory of him holding me up there on the Statue of Liberty, and I never had. All I remembered was pushing him away from me, trying to figure out how my lungs worked again, and then starting to scream for help a second later when I realized who it was that was lying at my feet bleeding to death. It was like he was giving me the good parts of that memory, to keep.

“What do you want?” He’s getting up now and reaching for the menu, and I have to shake myself out of my reverie.

“Lamb korma and saag paneer. And an order of pakora.” He nods and heads for the phone. “And can you get some raita?”

“Yeah.” He dials and starts to place the order. I take advantage of his momentary distraction to switch to _Law & Order_ for a few minutes. I love that show. It’s got everything—sex, murder, humor, drama, and everything always gets wrapped up by the end of the hour.

Logan hangs up and comes back to his chair, standing behind it. “Forty-five minutes.” He watches for all of thirty seconds. “That guy. He did it.”

I give him a pained look. “And how the hell would you know that? You don’t even know what’s going on.”

“They’re all the same goddamn plot. The actor who has the most innocent look on his face always did it.” He leans over to pick up his beer and I roll my eyes. See? Argument over. The worst part is, I’ve seen this one before and he’s right.

Eventually the food comes and we eat, watching more hockey interspersed with the odd ten minutes of _Sex and the City_ , which is about Logan’s limit. He hates it. “Lap Dance on Cable”, is I believe his exact description. But _I_ like it, so he puts up with a limited amount. Tonight it’s not exactly thrilling me either, to tell the truth. It’s probably Carrie’s lost Manolo Blahniks giving me flashbacks. Finally I get up and stretch, and then start picking containers up off the coffee table. “I should get going.”

“Stay over if you want.” He always offers. I ration my acceptances, particularly now that there isn’t a definite reason like finals coming up and wanting to stay closer to the library to study. It’s part of the unspoken deal we have—I don’t crowd him or chase him, and he doesn’t run. At least, not any farther than Brooklyn. And after my little display tonight—

“Mmm—I’d better get back. Got stuff to do tomorrow.”

“You sure?” He stands up and checks his watch. Haven’t seen that one for a while. My first couple of years in college, yes. Too young to take the train alone past a certain hour. I used to be secretly thrilled when he’d do that, because it meant that he wasn’t going to let me go back to Westchester. But tonight it annoys me, Protective Logan popping up all of a sudden and rearing his ugly head.

“Yeah. Then you can get back to your regularly scheduled programming.”

Ooh. There’s a flash of anger—well, good. I’m in a mood to push it tonight. “Marie--“ Warning growl, right on cue.

“You know what, Logan? I’m sick of this.” I didn’t mean to do this. I didn’t mean to do this for the next ten years, at least. We’d settled everything back down, gotten all the ‘uncomfortable’ stuff nicely back under control. And what do I do? I blow it wide open. “I am not a child, you get it? I don’t need to be walked to the train, I don’t need you to play pity date for me, and I sure as _hell_ don’t need you to pretend you don’t screw blondes you pick up in bars.” I grab my jacket off the hook by the door and reach for the handle and—wham. His hand comes down on the door over my head and That. Door. Isn’t. Going. Anywhere. I brace myself for the explosion.

“Yeah? What do you need?” _He isn’t yelling._ That’s a good thought to hang onto. His voice is right in my ear and it’s threatening to drive conscious thought straight out the other one. “Tell me. You’re not dropping a line like that on me and then walking out of here.”

“I need…for you to quit acting like I’m your little sister. I need for stuff to change, because I really seriously need never to show up here again and have my nose rubbed in it that you need something I can’t give you. Because I need for you to either want me back, or I need to end this. I can’t _do_ this any more, Logan.” I can’t look up or I’ll lose it completely, I know it. Then his other hand comes up, cupping my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“I need to know you’re sure about this, darlin’.” Dark hazel eyes, serious intensity, and whoa. Replay that, please. I knew my brain wasn’t going to handle this. I almost missed that last word. _Darlin’_ is for Jean, or Ororo. Grown women. I just can’t quite manage actual words while he’s looking at me like that. And he’s done talking, I can tell. My turn now.

“I’m sure.” Oh god, am I ever. His eyes stay on mine, searching for something, some last answer I don’t have, but I swear, all I need is a hint. Then he leans in and his mouth comes down on mine for the second time ever and—no, it’s the first time. That New Year’s thing—pfft. I have no clue why my heart was racing over _that_ when _this_ —

I bring my hands up to his neck and hold on, just in case he gets any funny ideas about going anywhere. Moving away doesn’t seem to be on his mind, though. His other hand finally comes down off the door and goes around my waist, pulling me up and against him. His mouth moves, but only down my chin, along my neck. God, he’s so—good at this. His fingers slide under my shirt, straight up my back. It takes him exactly one try to unhook my bra, and his hand comes around to cup my breast. “Oh, god—Logan!”

He stills his hands and mouth instantly. “What’s wrong, baby? Too fast?”

No no no. That is _not_ what I meant. “This is—for real, right? You’re not going to change your mind tomorrow?” What am I, insane? Am I _arguing_ with him?

He smiles then, slow and lazy and just beautiful. “Nope.” Apparently that’s all he’s going to say, too. Then his hands start to move over me again and I don’t really care any more. All I can think of is getting rid of the awful plaid shirt and grey t-shirt that are keeping _my_ hands away from that gorgeous body; a couple of buttons go flying and I’m not sure whether they’re from his shirt or mine. He scoops me up and I have never been more grateful for control over my mutation than I am right now, as he carries me back over to the couch and sits down, my bare breasts pressed against his chest. He kisses me again, slower this time, but somehow even more demanding, exploring my mouth with his tongue.

I can’t remember how we got here, from me about to walk out in a huff to him holding me, half-naked, but I don’t care. All I care about is making sure it doesn’t end. I’ve never been allowed to touch him as much as I want, the way I want, and I’m half afraid I’m going to wake up any second. I don’t know what to do first, and some of my anxiety must be bleeding through to my kiss, because he slides his hands into my hair and lifts my head a little. “Take it easy,” he tells me. “We got all night. And tomorrow and the next night, and so on.” Wow. That’s a good sentence.

“Okay.” I make myself relax. “I just—don’t want you to stop.”

“I won’t.” His fingers stroke my face, so gentle. So—possessive. And then he draws my head back down to his and I don’t think about anything except him for quite some time.

Finally I lift my head and ask the one question I’ve just got to still ask. “Logan—why tonight?” He seems to think about it forever before he answers, and I’m almost sorry I asked. It’s plenty long enough for me to worry that I’ve ruined the mood, that he’ll say it was to keep me from leaving, that he was waiting for me to ask—I don’t know. All the answers I can think of are ones I don’t really want to hear.

Finally he lets out a sigh. “Because I love you,” he says simply. It takes my breath away. “I’m not much of a talker, darlin’. You want to know the rest, right now—let it slip and take a look.” And that staggers me even more. For him to offer that—

Winning his love is huge enough. Winning his absolute trust—“No. No way in hell.” I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on tight. “I love you too. You know that, right?”

His hand comes down on the back of my head, holding me against him. “I know, baby. But it’s good to hear it.” He nuzzles his face against my ear. “It was time, for both of us. That’s all. Besides—“ and that throaty chuckle always goes straight through me—“It was the best way I could think of to shut you up.”

I look up, wanting to retort something indignant, but he kisses me again before I can answer and then he picks me up again and carries me through that damn foyer and into the bedroom, and as usual, the perfect answer to that doesn’t occur to me until the next morning.

_You just hate to lose an argument._ But you know what? I still don’t care.

I won the important one.

  
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